


now john at the bar is a friend of mine

by indigo_inks



Category: Piano Man - Billy Joel (Song)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, sweet romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24060877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_inks/pseuds/indigo_inks
Summary: The Piano Man is slow to realize that he's performing every Saturday night in a *gay bar*.
Relationships: Bill/John (Piano Man)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 66
Collections: Jukebox 2020





	now john at the bar is a friend of mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/gifts).



> I love your prompt for this song. Hope you enjoy!

“What’ll it be tonight?” John called out from behind the bar.

“Just the usual,” Bill replied as he made his way towards the bar’s baby grand piano and worked on getting himself settled.

“Scotch on the rocks it is,” John said with a smile and a good-natured wink that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the face of a movie star.

By the time the waitress was laying down a Sam Adams coaster next to Bill’s tip jar on top of the piano – John had poured Bill a double, as it turned out – Bill was stretching, rolling his shoulders, cracking his knuckles, and making some preliminary decisions about his song lineup. It was a good crowd for nine o’clock on a Saturday night, and he had a good feeling. The regulars were all accounted for.

The dapper old man who always sat alone was already deep into his tonic and gin. He angled his chair toward the piano and called out, “Are you going to play my song?”

He’d been asking that every week, and Bill had never been able to oblige him. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but the man couldn’t remember the title of the song or the musician or even the name of a person who had performed it professionally, and when he hummed the tune for Bill one time, Bill hadn’t recognized it.

He felt sorry for the old man – he always looked so sad. Some secret grief. Grieving for a lost love, perhaps, or his own youth. “First song’s for you, old man,” Bill said. “I don’t think it’s _your_ song, but I wrote it for you, so I hope you’ll like it anyway.”

He began to play.

* * *

The bar was a good gig. One of the best Bill had landed since trying to make a go of a musical singing/songwriting career. And the main appeal wasn’t the pay; it was the _atmosphere_.

The bar was an intimate, out of the way, off the beaten path sort of place. Yet it had regulars, and all of the regulars seemed to know each other, like they were friends. Or one big, happy family – them against the world. Bill liked that. He admired folks like that.

And the best part? The best part was that the regulars were happy to welcome him into their odd little family, and they were happy to permit him his indulgences. He’d been hired to play old standards and to take requests. But Bill was more than just a dexterous set of fingers and a decent set of pipes. He aspired to be modern poet, and the pop song was his medium of choice. The regulars let him try out his original compositions on them and gave him their feedback. They seemed like they admired him for his creativity…and where else was Bill gonna get paid to workshop his songs?!

“You’re so talented, Bill, God Almighty,” John said one night as he was closing up the bar. “Someday I’ll be saying, ‘I knew him when’.” Then he added, rather wistfully, Bill thought, “I hope you write a song about me someday.”

* * *

On hindsight, he ought to have realized. Bill ought to have realized a lot of things.

Paul the confirmed bachelor, for one. Paul, who worked in real estate but dreamed of becoming a novelist. Paul, who always sat at the bar next to Davy, a square-jawed, career military man. When they talked, they put their heads so close together that their voices were impossible to hear.

And then there was John, with the sweet smile and movie star looks. He’d come to the city from someplace with more cows than people, and three years on, he’d yet to make his big break. “You know, sometimes I think…” John paused to light Bill’s cigarette before lighting his own. He took a deep drag before continuing. “It’s killing me, Bill. Did I make a terrible mistake? Maybe I shouldn’t have left. I’d be running the farm myself by now if I’d just stayed put…”

“Nah. John, you’ll make it; you’ll see! And _I’ll_ be the one saying, ‘I knew him when’. I mean, look at you – you’re as handsome as any movie star they’ve got, _and_ you’re a good guy.” Bill reached out to awkwardly pat the top of John’s hand. To his surprise, John took Bill’s hand into his and squeezed. His grip was warm and strong.

John’s lips quivered, and Bill thought he saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. But it could’ve just been the cigarette smoke.

* * *

There was no great revelation from on high. There was no hissed slur, no police raid to tip Bill off. It just…came to him, kind of like the lyrics to a song. Kind of like the lyrics to _this_ new song.

He’d been seeing the signs for months. The dapper old man. Paul and Davy, who were probably as good as married. John.

Oh. _John._

Bill remembered how John had squeezed his hand. Yes, he’d been stupid; he should’ve realized. Good thing stupid didn’t have to be a permanent state of affairs.

“What’ll it be tonight?” John called out from behind the bar.

“Just the usual,” Bill replied as he made his way towards the bar’s baby grand piano and worked on getting himself settled.

“Scotch on the rocks it is.”

By the time the waitress was laying down a Sam Adams coaster next to Bill’s tip jar on top of the piano – John had poured Bill a double _again_ – Bill was laying out the sheet music for the new song he’d finished composing last night. He had a good feeling about it, and the regulars were all accounted for. He began playing, swallowing silently in preparation for the singing he was about to commit to. No turning back now. He really, really hoped they liked it.

“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday,” he sang.

The regulars were clapping and cheering before the song was even finished, and John at the bar was weeping openly. Bill had written a song about him. About _him_! About all of them.

After the bar closed that night, John took Bill home.


End file.
